by J. M. Stengl
Lady Beneventi stepped forward and laid one hand on his shoulder, reclaiming his attention. “Now, now! Gillian is a child. I have adored you since long before she was born, Giano.” She chucked him under the chin. “You’re a great deal older than I am in years though decidedly not in appearance. Trust me: Gillian would only shatter your stone heart, darling.”
Giano turned back to me, his stone brows drawing together, and I felt unaccountably guilty. But Lady Beneventi took his hand and drew him after her. “Come along now. You can push my chair. Let’s find you a pretty nymph to dance with, eh?” With no help at all, she walked to her chair, pushed it back to the path, and sat down. After a lingering backward look at me, Giano obediently pushed the chair up the grade toward the pool enclosure. I heard them talking as they moved away.
Once he was out of sight, I found courage to stand up, quivering in every limb. As a child, I had climbed all over the statues lining the passages and garden paths of Roxwell Hall. Had they been silently wishing me gone or wishing they could play with me?
Giano must remember my meaningless embraces while I took those selfies! Had he listened in on conversations? Had I confided in him while I sat alone on that bench? What all did he know about me?
This was totally bizarre!
And how many more statues were now running around the property? Nearly anything might happen! Hearing a loud croak, I did a standing high-jump that spun me toward the pond just in time to see the frog fountain hop into the water with a loud ker-thoink! A few drops from its splash reached as far as the bench.
Bacio had entirely disappeared—I couldn’t blame the dog for hiding. I would have liked to run to my room and dive under the coverlet for the day. But I had duties, the main one being Lady Beneventi, and I had just let a statue walk away with her. She was a dominant force for eighty-two, but her body was fragile. I didn’t believe Giano would harm her on purpose, but what if he stepped on her foot or knocked her down by accident?
I needed help. Almost without thinking, I pulled out my phone and texted: Lady Beneventi just wished all the statues to come alive for a garden party.
Would Manny see it? For all I knew, he could be on another continent. Or he could be in the area. But now that I thought about it, what could he do to help? He was just another human, not an enchanter. Jacopo Ganza, the steward, could notify the Trefontane family, if necessary. We didn’t need a building-supervisor person for that job!
But the deed was done. I couldn’t un-text him.
Instead of feeling better, I now felt worse. He would probably text back “Let me know how it goes” or some other useless blah-blah.
Irked with myself, I forced my legs into action and ran up the path toward the pool area, watching at every step for more living statues and starting at every breath of wind or twitter of a bird.
After walking and running nearly every day in the gardens at Torre Santa Lucia, I knew they were dotted with statues: dozens of beasts both real and mythical, nymphs, gods, goddesses, muses, cherubs, and at least one huge bronze sculpture of an ancient warrior. Indoors, dozens of plaster saints lined the chapel, small sculptures filled display cases, and bas-relief scenes from nature adorned the various halls and sitting rooms. Remembering the two stone lions on the front steps, I broke into a run.
Thunder like an avalanche gave warning just before the winged horse from the fountain in the circle drive trotted into view. It was pumping its wings as if attempting to fly, but its body alone must weigh several tons. Seeing me, it reared and pranced, shaking the earth. I prepared to dodge behind a tree, for all the good that would do. It was much smaller than a real winged horse, but one glancing blow from a stone feather could kill me! To my relief, it tossed its head and galloped off across the lawn, each hoof sending up chunks of turf in its wake.
As I approached the house, someone shouted. I looked up to see something fall from the roof to the pool deck. Crash! Uh oh. Had that been a statue? I saw motion near a chimney and recognized a cluster of gargoyles, their bat-like wings flapping and claws scratching the tiles, all apparently trying to climb over each other to reach the roof’s peak. Their squawks sounded terrified. Were gargoyles afraid of heights? Maybe they didn’t know how to fly. Another tile came loose and dropped, and I heard it shatter. I winced, thinking of the time and effort put into restoring that roof only weeks earlier.
I charged up the stairs to the nearest gate and stepped onto the terrace into an elegant garden party.
A band played jazz and swing music on the veranda, and on either side of me, along the terrace’s perimeter walls, dozens of servers wearing tuxes or starched white aprons over staid black dresses hovered near buffet tables and an elegant portable bar. One sober-faced man nodded politely at me. Statues, or perhaps I should say stone guests, filled their plates at the buffet and bellied up to the bar. Many of these were only three or four feet tall and looked like children from a distance. Round tables with white tablecloths dotted the lawn, sparkling with silver and china. No one sat at the tables, but a few of the folding chairs had been flattened like metal pancakes.
More statues danced on the veranda, which was tented for shade from the sun. I thought I recognized Giano among the cavorting stone creatures. Lady Beneventi must have matched him up with a nymph or something. Hoping he wouldn’t notice me, I hurried to the sunroom doors, where I could see house servants clustered, too afraid to step outside. When I opened the doors, a stream of small white figures, human, bird, and beast, poured onto the veranda, then spread across the terrace. Oops. It might have been better to leave them all inside.
“Come and help,” I called to the cowering maids. “We all know everything will return to normal at sunset, but we need to make sure none of them leave the grounds.”
“But . . . there are some weird creatures,” one girl protested even as she stepped outside.
“They are party guests. They’ll either behave or never be invited back.”
She gave me a look, and I shrugged. “As long as they believe it’s a threat, it should work.”
One by one, the maids ventured outside. “Just supervise, make sure no guest gets smashed . . . I mean . . . oh, you know what I mean . . . and see if we can’t keep them happy and peaceful here, close to the house. Oh—some of you should bring drinks and food to the other humans, especially Lady Beneventi, who is around here somewhere. It’s going to be a long, busy day!”
Once they were dispersed among the guests and the blurry servers—I stepped through the gate into the pool area. Potted plants and palm trees gave the pool deck a tropical appearance. Human-shaped statues sunbathed beside the pool on towels or on flattened lounge chairs. Other creatures wandered about, lapping water from the pool or bickering among themselves. I identified several cat-sized horses and cows, a rat-sized cat, some nearly life-sized pheasants, and two goats—all most likely escaped from bas-relief designs inside the house.
Several of the fancy servers moved about among the stone guests, offering hors d’oeuvres on trays. I wondered if any of them had served at the cocktail party last month, but they appeared to be from an even earlier era.
Hearing muted screams from the terrace, I ran back to the pool gate in time to see one of the lions from the front steps leap off a buffet table with what appeared to be a roast yearling pig clenched in its jaws, the legs dragging between its front paws. The big cat easily leaped the low terrace wall and escaped down the hillside.
The ghostly servers were irate and frightened—and who could blame them? So, in the style of a responsible hostess, I stepped forward to reassure them. “Remember, the animals are guests too, and it seems only fitting that the king of beasts should have the first choice at our buffet.” No one smiled, but their blurry faces relaxed.
A stout gentleman in an impeccable white tuxedo, no doubt the maître d’, bowed over my hand. “My lady, if you are pleased, we are pleased. I trust the banquet is to your liking?”
“Very much so. If our guests are happy, I am
happy. But Lady Beneventi is the actual hostess. Do you know where she is?”
He pointed to a shady corner of the terrace. There sat Lady Beneventi at her own table, with black-clad Maria right behind her. The efficient maids had already brought a real lunch outside so their lady could eat along with her guests. A life-size statue draped in robes sat gracefully on the grass at Lady Beneventi’s feet, talking with her like an old friend.
Someone touched my shoulder. “Gillian?”
I spun around, my heart pounding. “Manny! You— How . . . how did you get here so fast?”
His expression brightened. “I was working about twenty miles from here. I got texts from you and Luigi one right after the other, so I came immediately.” His dark eyes studied my face. “Any serious problems so far?”
“None that I know of, but there are so many statues in the gardens—how can we keep track of them all?”
He looked rueful. “We can only do our best. Jacopo and the boys left the harvesters to bring in the grapes while they round up escapees, and the builders rescued some gargoyles from the roof. I saw the bronze warrior chasing the bear through one of the vineyards on my drive up. I don’t think any fences will stop those two, but they were headed toward a forested area so hopefully won’t be seen.”
“That’s good to know. I saw the flying horse on one of the lawns, but it couldn’t get airborne, so I’m hoping none of the neighbors will see it. Most of the statues seem content to be party guests.”
Something moved near my feet. Nervous as I was, I overreacted with a little scream, and Manny grasped my arm. But it was only a white plaster hare nibbling on the lawn. A chorus of shrill barking reached us a moment later, and what looked at first like a horde of white mice poured through the bars of the pool enclosure. I let out another squeak before recognizing the creatures as a pack of plaster greyhounds. They focused entirely on the hare, which didn’t seem terribly concerned—probably because it was life size and they were tiny. It lifted its large ears, casually hopped to the terrace wall, and leaped it in one bound. The pack of hounds leaped and bayed at that wall, which they had no hope of scaling.
“Drama in miniature,” Manny commented, sounding more amused than concerned. “I recognize those dogs from the mantel in the great hall. The hare is probably from the staircase.”
“Gillian!”
I turned to see one of the maids beckoning to me from the veranda. I gently pulled my arm from Manny’s grasp. “Looks like I’m needed. Lady Beneventi is right over there if you want to talk to her.” I pointed, then hurried off, but Manny followed at my heels.
The maid rushed at me before I reached the veranda steps. “Gillian, a bunch of saints got out of the house through a broken glass door. They’re starting a riot on the veranda!”
“Plaster saints are causing a riot?” Looking closely, I saw small plaster statues, all draped in heavy robes and many with plaster halos, roaming among the stone dancers. Two of them held a towel, undoubtedly snitched from the pool area, and were attempting to wrap it about a naked nymph.
I heard gruff voices shout, “Repent and cease this shameless display!” and a shrill voice crying, “Take that ugly thing away from me!” The nymph flung the towel at their heads, and since they were two feet tall and very narrow in build, they toppled like bowling pins.
Both sides shouted in fury, and fisticuffs broke out.
“What can we do?” the maid cried.
Why she looked to me for advice on statue management, I cannot imagine. But a thought popped into my head. “We need to offer the goddesses something they’ll enjoy wearing. Get the girls to search the house for anything pretty that can be made into a garment. Anything! Table cloths, pillow cases, scarves, anything fancy. And find things to make loincloths or something for the gods while you’re at it.”
“Right!” She nodded and turned away.
“Oh! And safety pins,” I called after her.
I turned to see Manny in a huddle with a few manservants and construction workers. “Favio and Marco, get fruit, bread, and wine from the buffet tables, and take it down to the rose garden. Ask some servers to help. The rest of you, snatch the saints and carry them down there. Set them up with their own party.”
“Ask the g-g-ghosts?” Favio stuttered.
“The servers aren’t ghosts,” I pitched in. “They are magical representations.” I made up the definition on the spot, but it did the trick. Two ran to collect the food and wine while the others snatched saints out of the melee and ran for it. Two of the saints had lost their heads during the scuffle, but they still protested loudly as the men carried off their parts.
Manny rewarded me with a grin and two thumbs-up.
When the maids returned with armloads of colorful or lacy fabric, I assigned them to help the goddesses dress themselves. To my relief, the statues loved the idea and quickly figured out how to use the safety pins.
I thought manservants should hand out pillowcases and neckcloths to the gods for togas or loincloths, but the few men remaining on the terrace refused. “I’ll kidnap saints,” one said, “but I’m not dressing any naked gods.”
So, I attempted it myself. At first, my efforts went awry . . .
“How exactly do you want me to wear this?” one young god inquired, grinning from ear to ear. “How about you dress me in it, beautiful goddess? I need your help.”
“Um.” I stepped back. “I think you can figure it out.”
But then, help arrived.
“None of your pranks, Dion.” Giano appeared from behind me, already clad in a loincloth made from a scarf printed with the Vetrician flag. “If Lady Gillian wants us to wear togas or chitons, we’ll do it. The girls are all donning peplums anyway.”
With Giano there to persuade his peers, I soon had them decently attired. The gods were all incredibly flirtatious—even those only two feet tall! We humans felt a little less stressed once the party’s dress code was attained by all. Including two rather revolting cherubs, who now wore pillowcase diapers.
While the saints celebrated their own sedate party in the garden and dozens of goddesses and nymphs cavorted in their silks and laces, I plopped down on an unflattened garden chair for a moment to catch up with myself. I couldn’t help envying the stone guests in colorful array filling their plates at the buffet and bellying up to the magical bar. I was starving, but none of that ghostly magical food was edible to humans.
Then someone stepped over the chair next to mine, sat down, and handed me one of two plates of food. “Elena sent this out to you.”
I almost snatched it from Manny’s hand. “That woman is a saint.”
“And not a plaster one,” he agreed.
I had to laugh.
We ate quickly, watchful for any new conflict. Then Manny took my empty plate and said, “I’m going to check on the lower gardens and vineyards. The Ganza men are all out there rounding up strays on their own. Think you’ll be all right? It’s still a few hours until sunset.”
“I’ll be fine. Everyone has been so helpful. And . . .” My voice trailed off. Did I really want to say it?
He waited, brows raised.
“Thank you for coming today,” I said gruffly. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
When I dared to look up, he was smiling that warm smile of his. “You’ve managed things very well. And you’re welcome. I’ll stick around to the end.”
That crazy, clamorous, chaotic day seemed to race past. Lady Beneventi was delighted with the results of her wish, and I heard her voice above the throng many times, giving orders, requesting songs from the band, and otherwise being the lady of the hour. Giano spent little time with her, but she was too busy flirting with larger gods and chatting with muses and empresses to notice. Since Maria was with her, I spent my time patrolling the terrace and upper gardens, encouraging any wandering statues to join the party.
I was on the path just below the terrace, feeling about ready to drop, when I saw a statue approac
h. I would have recognized him even without the patriotic loincloth. “Giano, is anything wrong?”
After a day among statues, looking into his stone eyes no longer gave me a chill. His face expressed pleasure at the sight of me, and his stone hair rippled naturally as he shook his head. “Not at all. The guests are happy and well fed,” he answered, his voice bright and musical. “Yet you look stressed, my lady. I have seen you so before, at times when you come to visit me. May I play for you?” He held up his pipe.
“Sure. Why not?” I said, trying to force enthusiasm into my voice and face but probably failing dismally.
He held out one hand and, after only an instant of hesitation, I laid my hand in it. His grasp was gentle as he led me to an empty plinth, then easily lifted me to sit on its flat surface where a muse usually posed. Once I was settled, he stepped back, captured my gaze, lifted the pipe to his lips, and began to play a haunting tune that flowed over my nerves like warm honey. It was magical, and it was perfect. I could have listened all day.
When he lowered the pipe, I struggled to return to reality. “That was . . . wonderful.” An inadequate word, but I could think of nothing better. “What is it called?”
“It is Gillian’s Song. I’ve been composing it in my head every time you come to sit beside me, wishing I could comfort and cheer you. Now you may keep it with you always.”
Already the tune faded from my mind, but I couldn’t tell him so.
“Come and dance with me?” he pleaded with voice and eyes.
My feet were sore enough without being trodden on by stone dancers. But Giano looked so hopeful. Really, what could it hurt to give my favorite statue an afternoon to remember while he perched on his plinth for the next few centuries?
“Yes, thank you.” I laid my hand on his and let him lead me up the terrace steps. Even as we climbed, a triumphant neigh rang out overhead. I looked up to see the flying horse from the fountain wheel over the villa’s rooftop with all four legs in motion as if he galloped through the sky. How a creature that heavy had gotten airborne . . . Well, it must have been part of Lady Beneventi’s wish. A stone eagle I recognized from the roof’s peak flew after it, and several of the gargoyles had overcome their fear and learned to use their bat-like wings. Together they formed a unique flock.